Halvic stared at him for several seconds after the sneeze.
Not at his face.
At the way Shura pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose.
The headache hadn't fully faded. The pressure lingered behind his eyes. Eventually, Halvic looked away.
"That's why I told you before."
Shura frowned.
"Told me what?"
The answer came immediately.
"Drink your mother's milk."
Shura froze, though the reaction was subtle enough that most people would have missed it.
Halvic didn't.
For a brief instant, something brushed against the edge of Shura's mind.
A voice. A hand running through his hair. Warmth. For a fleeting instant, he almost remembered a face.
Then it was gone.
The memory dissolved before he could grasp it, and the pressure behind his eyes tightened
Halvic watched him quietly.
"There."
Shura blinked.
"There what?"
"That look."
"What look?"
Halvic shook his head.
"Never mind."
The wind shifted through the golden leaves overhead. For some reason, the old man seemed more certain of something than he had been moments ago.
Then he pushed himself to his feet.
"Come inside."
Shura looked up.
The invitation felt suspiciously sudden.
After everything at the tavern, being invited into the house felt stranger than being threatened.
Still, he stood.
The letter remained in his hand.
"Alright."
Halvic gave him one last glance before turning toward the house.
The front door opened with a soft creak.
"Close it behind you."
Shura stepped inside.
The latch clicked shut.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
He had expected the home of a bitter old man who spent his evenings drinking alone beside a lake.
Dust, broken furniture, neglect the usual image his mind had constructed.
Instead, the house was orderly.
The house wasn't luxurious or large. It was simply cared for.
The shelves were clean, the furniture neatly arranged, and the floor showed signs of regular sweeping.
The house felt living in.
Care for.
The entire house carried the feeling of someone who still cared enough to keep things in order.
Something suddenly struck him in the chest.
Shura caught it automatically.
A dark scarf.
He lowered it slightly.
"...Why?"
"Cover your face."
The explanation ended there.
Halvic walked into the kitchen before Shura could ask anything else.
Metal clinked softly.
Water poured.
A kettle settled onto heat.
The sounds carried the ease of long habit.
Shura draped the scarf loosely around his neck instead.
Then he began looking around.
The longer he looked, the stranger the house became.
A bookshelf covered most of one wall. Yet none of the books had titles.
Not faded. Removed.
Some bindings showed faint scratches where lettering had once existed. Others appeared deliberately scraped clean.
Nearby sat several storage boxes.
None had labels.
None carried names.
Even the drawers beneath the shelves lacked markings. Everything felt intentionally anonymous.
As though someone had spent years erasing categories from their own life.
Shura's eyes drifted toward a metal tray near the wall.
Burned paper.
Not ashes.
Fragments.
Blackened edges curled inward around pieces of documents that had been destroyed just enough to become unreadable.
Not enough to vanish completely. He found himself staring at them.
Trying to understand why someone would destroy information halfway.
From the kitchen, Halvic's voice broke the silence.
"I'm still not taking that letter."
Shura looked down.
The envelope was still in his hand.
"Why?"
Halvic snorted.
The sound carried faint amusement.
"Because if I wanted to hear from them, I'd have answered the first two hundred."
The kettle began to whistle softly.
For the first time, the reactions back at the Keeper Station made sense.
Shura looked at the envelope again.
"You've received that many?"
"More."
Halvic didn't elaborate.
He lifted the kettle and poured hot water into two cups. Steam curled into the air.
Shura stared at the letter.
Then slowly slid the folded paper from the envelope.
"If you won't read it, I'll read it myself."
"Go ahead."
The answer came instantly, without the slightest hesitation.
Halvic continued preparing the drinks as though the contents were completely irrelevant.
Then, after a brief pause, he added:
"If there's money inside, it's mine."
A laugh almost escaped Shura.
Almost.
Instead, he unfolded the paper.
The room grew quiet.
Only the soft whistle of escaping steam remained.
Shura lowered his eyes to the page.
Expecting a request.
A warning.
An explanation.
Anything.
The paper crackled softly between his fingers.
His eyes moved across the first line.